CHAPTER III.
DEATH AND LOVE TOGETHER MATED.
WHEN the day drags, when a man is solitary, and in a fever of impatience and suspense; when the minute-hand of his watch travels as slowly as the hourhand used to do, and the hour-hand has lost all appreciable motion; when he yawns, and beats the devil's tatto, and flattens his handsome nose against the window, and whistles tunes he hates, and, in short, does not know what to do with himself, it is deeply to be regretted that he cannot make a solemn
